The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
raised portion of the flat we could see for hun- 
dreds of yards around—a veritable miniature 
Ararat for us—for if it had not chanced on this 
spot of rising ground, it is certain we should 
never have seen it again. What a mess every- 
thing was in—sugar and tobacco spoiled, and 
all mixed up! But my guide did not know the 
word “ defeat,” for after shifting camp to a drier 
spot, he proceeded to boil out the sugary mess 
until it would again crystallize, and we dried the 
sticks of tobacco in front of the fire. Of course 
the latter became untwisted, but that was a 
mere detail so long as it remained more or less 
what it was intended to represent, and we were 
too much elated over our lucky recovery of the 
box to be too particular as to appearances. 
This camp was quite at the end of the harbour, 
and under the protection of Mount Ilamina, a 
voleano, from the sides and summit of which 
steam and smoke were perpetually issuing. I 
should have liked, had time permitted, to have 
made a voyage of discovery to this mountain and 
to have endeavoured to negotiate its ascent ; 
the base could not have been more than five or 
six miles distant. 
We spent the next day or so in the boat 
looking for bears on the grass slopes opposite 
my camp, but whether the salmon had proved 
an overpowering attraction, or we were a fort- 
night or so late in our search, we found no more 
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